Consrtucting Destruction
by Logrus Mage
Summary: Every building starts with a foundation, and every creation begins with an idea. Every statue has its cracks, just like every creation has its flaws. Perfection, Harry Potter will find, cannot be trusted.
1. Digging a Foundation

AN: Well, this is it, my first fic. Please remember, almost every plot hole is part of the over all story, and will be filled later (hence the mystery genre). This story will probably contain graphic violence and light to heavy sexual references. I will not reveal the possible pairings (I haven't fully decided), but I can promise it will not be slash or Harry/Ginny, nor will it be Harry/OC, and it _probably_ won't be Harry/Hermione (so don't be fooled by any interaction). Like all other authors, I'd greatly appreciate review, criticisms, and flames (make em' lulzy pleeze). Particularly if you feel that a sentence or word didn't flow very well. However, "what's gonna happen next?" and "Ooh but what about X, why didn't HE/SHE do anything here?" are a bit futile. I've planned this pretty well, or at least, I'd like to think I did :P.

If anyone wants to grammar beta, I'm looking for one of those, as well as someone to bounce the overall idea and my notes off of (but they will be massively spoiled).

A warning to all those who prefer fics that strictly follow canon, this story will not. The canon universe might be (mostly) the same, but I'll be turning the plot of Harry Potter into something mostly unrecognizable to canon.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I own anything in relation to Harry Potter except my plot, and my OC's.

* * *

Joseph hated Halloween.

He hadn't always hated Halloween. Of course, he hadn't always been called Joseph, either. He had been born Aled Arwel to a Welsh wizarding family. Now, the name Aled held no meaning to him other than its translation: offspring. Where he had once cursed his father for his lack of originality, he now recognized the importance of anonymity. The anonymous remained hidden always. If one is unnamed, one can hardly be found.

Joseph watched as two young children, a little girl dressed as a witch and another he believed to be a mummy, marched up the steps onto the porch of the house in front of him. 16 Haven Lane was an unassuming white house in the unassuming town of Effingham. Joseph observed the two children as he had countless others in the past three hours, and just like the seventeen other children, they eventually gave up and left after only knocking three times.

Joseph had been watching this house for the past three hours carefully, waiting for it's occupants to signal him. He was nervous. He hadn't been in England for many years, and he didn't plan on staying any longer than he had to. As he watched the children leave number 16's small porch, he began to reminisce about his own childhood.

His family had never celebrated Halloween, neither the muggle nor magical way. They still practiced the ancient holiday of Calan Gaeaf, the first day of winter when spirits roamed the earth. He remembered the small, eight year old boy, anxiously awaiting his turn to place his stone, a small, flat stone with _Aled_ printed on it in his neatest script, into the flames of the Coelcerth. The ancient ritual would supposedly predict who was to die within the year. He remembered clearly waking up the next morning, rushing immediately to the sight of the fire. Sifting through the ashes, he found each of his brothers' stones, then his mother's, and finally his father and grandfather's. His stone hadn't been found. He remembered his dread as he realized it would be his year to die.

His parents had comforted in the usual way, telling him it was a silly old ritual. But having seen his parents so reverently regard the old ways in the past, he could not help but let his fear overcome him. It was that fear that made him reconsider his life, his purpose on Earth. The next November came and went, and Joseph lived. However, the little Welsh boy named Aled died that year.

It had started with his grandfather, who'd died a few months after Calan Gaeaf of old age. Then his father had drowned in the river near their home days before his mother and all three of his brothers met their ends when a bus was mistakenly blown up by the Irish Republic Army. Aled was passed from orphanage to orphanage before his seventeenth birthday, when he officially dropped his name, faked his own death, and moved into the backwaters of society. He had studied hard while at the orphanage, mimicking wand motions and memorizing the incantations written in his grandfather's journal. Using the ancient Welsh magic left to him by his grandfather, Aled made a new name for himself. Joseph, the anonymous man who murdered for a living, all the while running away from the Coelcerth, Calan Gaeaf, and his purported fate.

A crack resounded from in front of him, and Joseph was startled out of his memories. Angered at his loss of focus, the forty-four year old Welsh assassin quickly realized he was late.

"_Darfod,_" whispered Joseph.

A rustling sound emanated as the cocoon of branches that had previously been surrounding him died and crumbled under his weight. He hit the ground with a slight thump, and stood up slowly, straightening and cleaning his brown overcoat as he did so.

After slowly checking the area around him for the third time, Joseph slowly began to walk to the front door of number 17, Haven Lane. He walked up the porch steps and to the large, white door with as much purpose and decisiveness as he could muster, knowing the occupants of the house were watching him closely. He knocked four times and waited.

While he did, he couldn't help but admire in awe the placement of the house. Who would expect the home of such a notoriously bigoted wizard to be in such a place? There was nothing at all that gave away the house as anything more than completely ordinary.

Joseph heard a shuffling beyond the door, and further steeled his resolve. He would go in, negotiate as fast as possible, and then quickly get out of England on the Ministry's next international Portkey.

The door opened a crack, and Joseph could see a thin face peer at him from behind it.

"You have gold?" a crackling, old-sounding voiced asked him. Joseph knew the face attached to the voice, and it took a lot of steel resolve to not recoil when he heard it.

"Of course." Joseph's voice was quiet, deep, and more importantly, held no indication of any accent of any kind, British or otherwise. It was, in that way, a strange voice, but one you could forget almost immediately after hearing. It helped that Joseph rarely used it.

As the door swung open, Joseph gripped his wand, hidden in the right pocket of his coat. 9¼ inches long and made of a very stiff oak, its size made it easy to stash away, as well as quick to draw.

"Come in, quickly. We wouldn't want any of the," the elderly man sneered, "_children_ to see you, now would we?"

Joseph sympathized. He hated children as much as he hated Halloween.

As he crossed the threshold of number 17, and the old man shut the door behind him with a resounding _click_, Joseph examined the old man in front of him.

Around five foot and eight inches tall with a tightly drawn, thin face and a thatch of now gray hair that covered his eyes, Caractacus Burke matched his description quite nicely.

If Mr. Burke fit his description perfectly, then his house fit him terribly. To Joseph, it seemed much too_ normal_, much too _ordinary_ to belong to the famed dark object collector, even if he was deep in hiding. It had cost him a great deal for Mr. Burke's current address. Even after calling in a few favors and a life debt, the information had cost him a considerable sum.

"I believe you've already been informed of what I might purchase from you." Joseph worded carefully. He was trying his damnedest to not let Burke know just how badly he wanted what he came to buy. Had he pondered for awhile longer, he might have realized that Mr. Burke knew exactly how much he had paid to find him, and therefore knew exactly how badly he wanted to buy from him.

"Yes, yes," Mr. Burke rushed in his speech, "right this way, Mr. Joseph".

With that, Burke walked briskly past his own dining room whilst Joseph followed; through his kitchen, living room, and some sort of den they went until Mr. Burke stopped at a large, black-faced box, which Joseph recognized as a muggle television.

Mr. Burke flicked out his wand, startling Joseph a bit, as he hadn't even seen hints of a wand on Burke's person, and waved it around a few times. In short order, the television was levitated and moved, and the rug it had been resting on rolled up. Mr. Burke then slowly bent down, where he placed his palm on the wooden floor. Joseph heard a few whispered words and a trap door appeared where the floor had once been. Lifting the latch, Mr. Burke gestured towards the ladder.

"I believe you'll find what you're looking for down here." He then began to slowly climb down the ladder.

Slightly impressed with the old man's vitality, Joseph followed after.

Caractacus Burke's underground storeroom fit the man about as well as the house above conflicted with him. Dark and sinister looking objects were stacked upon rows and rows of shelving, a small table with two, seemingly uncomfortable wooden chairs were placed in the center of it all.

"Sit." Burke said in what he must have thought was a charming way. While Mr. Burke was indeed a crafty salesman, it was not his voice that made him such.

Burke, once again flicking his wand, summoned an object from the back of his storage room. As it floated towards him, he noticed Joseph eyeing it with intensity. He smirked as he caught the apparatus, placing it on the small table between them. The small cylindrical clip and omnioculars were certainly among the more interesting of his trinkets, though it was also one of the tamest. It allowed the user to zoom in on a target that the wand with the clip attached was pointed towards. Looking from the wands point of views, the omnioculars provided pinpoint accuracy for a long range spell; perfect for long-distance spell work like assassination. Like all magical items useful for battle, it had been declared dark when it was shown to the Ministry, and the few that had been produced destroyed or confiscated. He'd only managed to get his hands on the original prototype because his brother had known the man who invented it.

"Forty galleons." Joseph offered while still eyeing the omnioculars. Burke's smirk disappeared, replaced by a wide sneer.

"You think me a fool! This is one of a kind! It's worth a few thousand galleons at the very least!" He exclaimed. Joseph looked a bit disgruntled, but persisted with an only slightly higher price, to which Burke also responded similarly. The back-and-forth bargaining continued for a few minuets, both occupants of the basement storage room refusing to back down, or in Joseph's case go up, to the other's level.

"I refuse to take any less than 400 galleons for this precious artifact! It's an old family heirloom of a friend to the Burke family!" Burke pounded the table in front of him in his excitement.

Suddenly, Joseph stood, and a small shock wave of power flipped over the table in front of him. Joseph of course, knew he had cast a silent 'Hypa' charm, meant to push a close-quarters attacker away slightly. Burke, however, had no such luxury of knowing about ancient, silent cast Welsh spells. He had taken the display as one of pure magical force, an impressive display at that. Beyond all of the staunch defiance, Joseph saw the seeds of fear had been planted. He spoke, making sure to keep his wand trained on the elderly Burke.

"You value this no more than you value anything in this blasted basement for its sentimental value." He snarled in what he hoped was a menacing way, before backing down and settling back into his seat. "If I'm to pay such a heavy price for these, I'll be wanting something else as well."

Burke raised an eyebrow. "What else would you be liking, Mr. Joseph?" Joseph gave a cruel smile.

"Surprise me." With that Burke began flicking his wand. A few tattered objects flew in from the shelves around them. He took the first, what appeared to be a large fang, and held it out in front of him.

"The Fang of Bardow, an ancient object that brings strength to the holder's animagus form."

Joseph frowned, "And what use would I have for that? I don't plan on getting into any creature brawls any time soon Burke." Joseph also failed to mention that his animagus form, a seagull, would have little use for the power-up.

Burke mimicked Josephs frown, and put the fang down. Rummaging through the small pile next to him, he pulled out what Joseph recognized as an old Soviet Geiger counter. "And what use would I have for a muggle device? Stop wasting my time, old man."

"Tut, tut," Burke said, "not everything is as it seems. This," he said while patting the Geiger counter, "device detects magical signatures. It can also be set to block out its users signature, so your own magic will never confuse it; quite useful for detecting wards in more isolated areas." Burke smiled when we realized Joseph was interested. He had, as always, made the sale.

"Deal." Joseph reached into the inner pockets of his coat, and took out a large, heavy seeming bag. He pointed at it, and whispered a few words. Burke had, of course, seen such things before. Bags that filled themselves directly from one's vaults, activated by whispering a password and amount. He looked up again and saw Joseph place the now heavier bag unto the table, which he had put back in place a short while ago. "I trust you'll find this is quite enough." Mr. Burke silently cast a weighing spell on the bag. It was indeed enough. The weight of a galleon was almost impossible to mimic, so weighing was a quick and easy way to determine if a correct amount was being paid, as opposed to counting the galleons individually.

With that Joseph picked up the omnioculars, wand clip, and magical Geiger counter, and hurried up Mr. Burke's ladder, and out of number 17 Haven Lane. It would only be a few hours later when Mr. Burke went to count his profit that he would discovered that near half the galleons he had counted by weight before were, in fact, made of iron. After staring in awe for nearly half an hour at the iron coins, and rolling the thought of how brilliant their creator's spell work must be to mimic goblin galleons so perfectly in weight and size with iron, he realized he'd been had. Angry beyond reason, Burke swore himself to revenge. He hadn't been tricked many times, but if there was one thing he could say about his life, it was that Caractacus Burke _always_ completed the sale.

* * *

As Joseph began walking away from Haven Lane, he couldn't help but let a wide smile appear on his face. After all, he'd just pulled a fast one over on the slimiest, craftiest, and possible greatest salesman in a century. He silently thanked his friend in the Soviet Union for the iron galleons. It'd cost him a life debt, but saving 200 galleons had certainly been worth it. Quite satisfying, too.

He looked down and began to more closely examine the Geiger counter. Turning it on, it emitted a steady stream of clicks. He pointed it towards himself, and the clicks increased dramatically. Smiling, he fiddled with one of the knobs until the clicking stopped. Satisfied with having tuned it to his magical signature, he was about to turn it off when he heard a faint click. Puzzled, he held the magic detector, as he'd decided to call it, in the air. Sure enough, a slow and steady stream of clicks came. Based on what he knew, there was no magical neighborhood in the county of Surrey. Certainly there were no magical residents in Effingham other than the heavily warded number 17 Haven Lane, but the clicks only came when he pointed the detector _away_ from Burke's house.

He mounted his broom, suddenly determined to follow the stream of clicks to the source of magic. Normally, he would never have been so bold, but working off the high of purchasing exactly what he wanted, for a price much cheaper than he was willing to pay, he zoomed off into the sky following the directions given by the magical detector.

Several minuets later, the clicking of the detector reached a climax. He followed it down into a small neighborhood. He figured he hadn't traveled very far. He was probably still in Surrey. He walked down the street after landing, only slightly bemused by the rows of absolutely identical white houses. He looked up towards a street sign at the corner; it read '_Privet Drive'. _ He continued down, following the clicking noise of the detector, until he came upon Number Four. Looking up, he saw nothing spectacular about the house, and felt no wards that might indicate a wizarding abode. He doubted a wizard could have hidden in such an _ordinary_ street anyway.

Suddenly, Joseph heard a soft cry. Startled, he looked at its source; the doorstep of number Four, Privet Drive. On it, there was a small basket, and in that, a baby.

Surprised by his findings, Joseph inched forward. By the time he was near the baby, his magic detector was going crazy. The kid was emanating an insane amount of magic. He examined the child and found a scar, in the shape of a lightning bolt, on his forehead. Curious, he slowly brought the magic detector towards the scar. When it was relatively close, the clicking increased to an insane amount, and its handle grew hot in his hands. With a yelp, he dropped it on the ground next to the basket.

Either this kid was the next coming of Merlin, or more likely, Joseph thought, he had been struck by quite the powerful curse. Magical scars were rare, and for one to be giving off this much magical energy... Joseph's thoughts trailed off.

Snapping his head back and forth, Joseph made a decision. Scooping up the basket and the child inside, he quickly disillusioned himself and the child, mounted his broom, and kicked off.

It wasn't until the next day, after hopping on the earliest Portkey of the morning, which happened to be to Paris, that he saw the early morning edition of the magical newspapers and realized the gravity of what he had done. After reading the story of the boy-who-lived, and making a quick double check at _his_ baby's forehead, he did the only thing he had prepared to do in such a situation; he cursed violently and lucratively in all of the seven languages he spoke, and a few that he didn't.


	2. Making a Start

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I own anything in relation to Harry Potter except my plot, and my OC's.

* * *

_"He's going to be the one, I am certain of it."_

_"How can you be so sure? You've been wrong before, why are you so sure about this one?"_

_"I am not infallible, I've learned that now. You know why I was so sure about the last one; this one is different. **He's** different. If your careful, you can even feel him now, his attachment to the grid is far beyond what it should be at his age"_

_"Regardless, you've been wrong in the past, and you could be wrong now. The last one was skilled too. You cannot simply assume this six year old boy will grow into the man that can and will defeat you."_

_"That's why I didn't assume anything. I tried my hardest to stop him before he began to grow; you can plainly see my failure in that regard. All of my precautions wasted because of one, small oversight."_

_"So why not just go after him now? Why wait for the petit garçon to grow?"_

_"I don't have time to wait for another, Cassius. I need to leave soon, to continue my travels. You will inform me when the body is ready?"_

_"Do not assume I am completely en ton flanc! I will inform you what I wish to inform you, and nothing more."_

_"...very well."_

Harry gazed out of the window of the moving vehicle, taking the in sights and colors of the Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azur region of France. They'd taken a taxi from the busy city of Marseille, where'd they'd spent the last nine months.

The small flat situated above a fish market had become somewhat of a home to him. The fish monger himself had taught him about all of the different kinds of fish, as well as helped him learn to speak the language. He was now working his hardest on learning to read and write in both the Queen's English and his current home's French. So far, he'd read only a few small children's books in English. However, he'd read many more of the more available French story books.

Having gotten his fill of the beautiful countryside, he turned back to the book on his lap. Illustrated with soft, wistfully done pictures, Le Petit Prince was quickly becoming his favorite book. He would have continued to read it, too, if the taxi hadn't come to a slow halt. Glancing up, he saw they'd arrived at the beginning of a winding pathway. The surrounding meadow was vast, and Harry took the picture in with a not-too-small sense of awe.

"Come now, boy, this shouldn't take too long." Joseph said, as he opened the taxi's door and stepped out onto the path. He sounded excited, like he'd been anticipating whatever was about to happen for a long time.

Harry silently rolled his eyes; 'this shouldn't take too long' almost always meant it would take quite a long time, and Harry would be very bored. He was again thankful he'd brought his book to read. They started walking down the dirt path, and Harry noticed again that Joseph was anxious, he was walking faster than usual, and it took a lot to make Joseph act anything but perfectly bland and normal. Harry took his anticipation as a sign that Joseph wasn't, as he'd once suspected, as bland as oatmeal. Harry wanted excitement, Joseph gave him normality. If it hadn't been for his books, Harry might have grown up to be a whiny prat. Perhaps whomever they were going to meet would be interesting; despite being an incredibly bland person, Harry had always found Joseph's 'friends' to be lively and colorful, or at the very least cold and scary. They were all much more interesting than his guardian, or at least it seemed that way to Harry.

After as few minuets of walking, Joseph came to a halt, almost causing Harry to run into him as he stumbled to catch up. Joseph stared in front of his, seemingly at nothing. The open expanse of a meadow looked very plain. Harry was disappointed.

"What are we looking at?" he asked. Joseph snorted, showing his disapproval, before responding.

"You have to look past the wards. You're a magical child; you _should_ be able to see it."

Sure enough, as Harry refocused his vision to take in the meadow entirely, he was able to see the faint ripple he associated with magic. He focused on looking at a point past it. Slowly his vision expanded to include what seemed to be a large farm of come sort. In the distance, a villa sat atop a decently high plateau. Workers, a mixture of house elves and men, worked the fields, harvesting the small bunches of juicy looking red grapes from their vines. Harry later made the connection to a vacationing pamphlet he'd borrowed from the fish monger for reading practice. This was a vineyard.

They were soon met by a short, stumpy man who introduced himself as Alphonse. The man quickly explained that his Lord wasn't quite ready to see them yet, and was in the middle of an important meaning. Joseph had tensed at this news, something that didn't go unnoticed by Harry. Whoever this "Lord" was, he was obviously very important to Joseph.

During a quick and event less tour of the vineyard, Harry manage to pick up from the conversation that October was a very busy month, as it was the month of the grape harvest. He started phasing out the conversation after Alphonse began to blather on in French about the different types of grapes and wines they made. It might have been an interesting topic to Harry, if Alphonse hadn't have spoken in such an uninspired monotone.

Harry, however, began listening again soon enough, as Joseph became impatient and began to question Alphonse about the whereabouts of his Lord.

"It is very important that I see Lord Valmont. I have been kept here long enough, I've been waiting for this meeting for almost a year, and I will not wait any longer!" Alphonse looked up at Joseph, trying and failing to hide his intimidation. Harry couldn't help but think it was stupid of Joseph to have revealed he'd been waiting so long. It made him seem desperate, and Alphonse would surely tell his master. However, Harry thought, if this Lord Valmont is as important as he seems, he probably already knew they'd been living here.

"Very well," Alphonse said in a defeated voice, "follow me." He then began to lead them up the side of a sloping hill, to the top of the plateau where the villa was located. The small inlaid stiars were hidden quite well, and could hardly be seen at all from a distance. Harry noted they were made of a shiny, white colored stone. The villa was done in Roman style. A small, man-made pond was situated in the front, and was filled with a variety of fish Harry recognized from the market.

Alphonse continued to lead them through the doorway, and past a the first few rooms, which Harry assumed were mainly for show. A variety of haughty looking portraits stared at them as they passed by. Eventually, Alphonse came upon an archway covered by cloth veil. He lifted the veil to one side, and gestured for Joseph and Harry to walk through.

The room beyond the veil was large. Harry marveled at its utter size, staring up at the ceiling, which was enchanted to look like a starry sky. It was a bit strange, looking at such a ceiling and knowing that it was only midday.

In the center of the room, a man whose back was facing them was seemingly demonstrating something to three elderly -and, judging by their clothes Harry assumed rich, men. He was waving his wand around a small, levitated stone, making slow and deliberate circles around it. That wasn't what most interested Harry, however. It was the great array of glowing circles, symbols and the small pile of metals at the center that caught his attention most. The man, whose stone had now begun to glow as well, began to speak. Harry thought his voice sounded strong and robust; a stark contrast to the usually meek and screechy voice of his guardian.

"Vicis immortalis. Sol solis. Etiam Luna ut Ortus. Astrum intereo. Plagiarius No. Humanus Repo!" He pronounced each syllable fully, giving emphasis to the last word in the chant. Suddenly, the air around the glowing circles began to spin wildly. Harry wasn't entirely sure what happened, but when the glowing faded and the winds died down, the small pile of random bits of metal had become something else. Harry wasn't close enough, however, to determine what exactly that something was.

Joseph decided that now that he'd seemingly finished his work, it was time to approach him. Both he and Harry walked forward. As they neared him, Harry picked up snippets of his conversation with the three men in front of him.

"...you have it! I trust you are all pleasantly impressed by my, ahem, presentation. If you'll excuse me, I have other business to attend to."

The men nodded with understanding, and took their leave through the room's second door, which Harry saw led outside to the grape fields.

The man in front of them, who by now Harry had determined to be "Lord Valmont", turned around to face them. At once, Harry was confounded by his height! He was very tall, towering over Joseph as well as Harry's six year old body. He had broad shoulders and a strong jaw, he looked a lot like the busts of Roman emperors Harry had seen in travel guide books. He gave off an overall appearance of an aristocrat, but much more capable and worldly than the few other nobles Harry, or rather Joseph, knew.

"Je suis désolé pour making you wait so long. I had important business I had to see to which I could not reschedule. I am hoping Alphonse showed you an expected amount of hospitality?" Once again, Harry was taken aback by the quality and nobility of his voice. Joseph simply nodded in response.

Walking over to a table behind them, Lord Valmont picked up a wooden cup filled with a multitude of grapes, all in different shades of red or purple. He stuck his wand into the cup of fruit, and slowly began to turn it while speaking in the same voice he'd used before during his 'demonstration'.

"Saecula saeculorum Vinum." As he spoke, the grapes in the cup glowed and turned to a dark, purple colored liquid. He raised the cup to his nose, inhaling deeply. "Ah! Très bon! Mourvèdre grapes mixed with Cinsaut for heat tolerance, Grenache and Carignane to add softness and bouquet and a hint of something else. Very nice. Would you like some, Monsieur Joseph?"

"No thank you," responded Joseph, "I've never been one for alcohol." Lord Valmont frowned a bit, seemingly insulted. Harry decided it was his time to speak up. He knew you weren't supposed to turn down a gift from your host; you definitely didn't turn down gifts that were obviously planned, like the wine had been.

"I'll try some." He said. Glancing down, Valmont looked surprised, as if he had totally missed Harry's presence before that moment. With a small look of approval, he bent down to offer the cup to him.

"Alright then. Be sure to inhale its scent first. Them once you have taken in its aroma fully, take a small sip." Harry followed his instructions carefully, making sure to fully take in the smell before taking a sip. When he did drink a bit of the liquid, he found it burned a bit, but beyond that was actually quite good.

"It's very, um, smooth? It has some sourness to it, I think, in the background." Valmont looked very surprised, much more so than he had when Harry had first spoken up.

"Very good. Do you think you can you tell me what the 'sourness in the background' comes from?" Harry frowned a bit, puzzled.

"I'm not sure. I think I'd need a few more sips to figure it out." Valmont chuckled a bit and gave a stern smile. He handed Harry the cup again, and instructed him to wait in a room off the side of the atrium while trying to figure out what the 'sourness' came from.

"Drink it slowly though. I wouldn't want to be responsible for such a young boy becoming drunkard!"

"You mean like the man who drinks to forget that he drinks?" Harry said excitedly. He liked it when things paralleled what he read. For the third time that night, Valmont looked at him with surprise, but this time the look had a very interested shade to it. Harry knew he must have been surprised that he'd read something like Le Petit Prince. He felt his pride inflate; he held himself a little higher after that.

"Yes, I wouldn't want to be responsible for you becoming something as silly as that."After promising he'd never become such a thing, Harry hurried out of the room, and only waited by the door long enough to hear the very beginning of Valmont and Joseph's conversation.

"-going to do this, I'm going to need more money."

"I'm already giving you quite enough; the fame you'll gain in the underground world should be quite enough extra to-"

Harry sat down at the small, round table he found in the room he'd been sent to. As he sat, slowly sipping the wine, now completely determined to defeat this challenge and figure out what the taste was, he couldn't help but replay the magic he'd seen in the atrium over in his head. The large glowing circle had given off quite a bit of magical power; whatever the spell was, it Harry knew it must have been very complicated. He had seen a great number of ripples around the circle, many more than he usually saw in wards! Whatever it was, Harry knew he wanted to learn about it one day. He added it to the long list of things he was determined to learn; it was getting a bit long, so Harry decided he'd have to drop learning how to be a master fisherman. This looked much more interesting, after all.

"Remember, the man thinks he's Hannibal incarnate. He's absolutely obsessed with recreating the so called 'Empire' of Carthage. He'll be surrounded by bodyguards day and night, all of whom know how to handle assassination situations. You're sure you can guarantee you won't be caught or traced to me?" Joseph hesitated a bit, not wanting to reveal his thought that Cassius Valmont had been equally as insane about recreating the Roman Empire not to long ago. Soon enough though, he bristled a bit at the insult to his skills.

"I'm the best. I won't leave a single track for them to follow, and as far as tracing is concerned, I do not exist. Not in the muggle society, not in magical society, not anywhere." He glanced back at Valmont, who was looking contemplative. It had been a long round of negotiations, but in the end he'd gotten a good sum for his work. 400 galleons, half to be paid now in cash, and the other transferred to his account at Gnomergan, the Swiss wizarding bank.

Valmont paused before asking his next question. "Has the boy begun any sort of magical education yet? If he's old enough to read and understand Le Petit Prince, he's certainly old enough to begin basic training. Obviously, you can't teach him actual magic until his connection to the lay lines stablilize, but it's never to early to begin teaching wand movements and incantations. I assume you intend him to be an apprentice?" Joseph was surprised the great Cassius Valmont was bothering to take interest in his ward.

"I've thought about it. I don't know if the boy has the intelligence or power to keep up with what I could teach him." He seethed a bit. It wasn't that he didn't want to teach the boy; Merlin knows the kid has a huge thirst for knowledge, it was that he feared him. Only seven years old, and already he had as much inner magic as an eleven year old first year student. He'd picked up reading and writing at a great, though not unheard of, pace. He hadn't exactly been a model parent; he feared the boy would rise up against him in revenge.

"Take him with you then."

"What?"

"Take him with you on this job. See if he has a knack for anything important. He could become a great asset to you, if you train him right. He'd be loyal to you as well; who wouldn't be loyal to the man that taught them magic?" It was true, Joseph thought, Harry was usually loyal to his teachers. The fish monger whose store was below their flat had certainly garnered his loyalty. Maybe it was time to teach him. _After all_, Joseph thought, _if I start teaching him wand movements now, he'll be able to glide right through years of his education come his eleventh birthday. He'll just need to be taught how to interact with the matrix._

"I'll take that into consideration. Now, as the conversation has drifted from my job to my ward, I assume we're done with business?"

"Of course. You may call the boy back in, if you wish." Valmont seemed happy, and as always, Joseph was wary of anybody's happiness after a negotiation he hadn't rigged. Only after convincing himself that Valmont was just happy to see business completed, did he calm down.

"Very well. Boy!" he yelled out. From the other side of the room, a small creaking noise echoed as Harry opened the door he had left through.

"You're done, then?" he said.

"Yes. We're leaving now." With that, Joseph walked up, took Harry's arm in his hand, and began to pull him towards the veiled door they'd entered through. However, before he could drag Harry out of the room, Harry turned around and spoke to Valmont.

"Apples. The sourness came from apples." Valmont raised his eyebrows, clearly impressed. It was obvious to Joseph that Valmont hadn't expected Harry to actually guess the flavor.

"Can you tell what kind?" Valmont questioned.

"Green, I think." Harry responded, after scrunching up his face in concentration.

"Bon! I'm impressed!" Valmont then walked across the room, stopping in the middle of the circle he'd been using before. He bent down and picked the object in the center off the floor. "Come here, boy."

After shrugging off Joseph's grip, Harry hurried over to Valmont. Valmont proceeded to place a very plain looking platinum watch on his wrist. It immediately tightened to fit him.

"It's the newest watch in my company's line. I own a watch company, you see, called Valmet, and this is our newest product. You see here," he said pointing the the buttons on the side of the watch, "these controls what the watch will tell you. It can give basically all of the astronomical information a wizard could possibly want to know. The position of the planets, stars, the moon, the place of Earth on it's axis as well. It will also, obviously, tell time with perfect accuracy. Quiet stylish as well, or at least I'd like to think it is."

Harry looked up with awe. Joseph knew he'd never received a gift like the watch before, mainly because he'd never truly given Harry anything. He'd never bothered to. His own birthday wasn't exactly a happy time for him, and he hated holidays. Why should he give Harry happiness when he so lacked his own?

"Thank you!" Harry managed to gasp.

"Come on now," Joseph said "we're leaving."

Joseph thought that if Harry had known he'd meant they'd be leaving France all together, and not just Valmont's villa, he might have been a little more reluctant to leave.

The next few years for Harry went by quickly. After moving to Tunisia and watching Joseph assassinate General Motumbu, Joseph decided it was time to have him trained. He started to learn basic theory as well as wand movements and incantations. He practiced with a coreless wand, not actually performing magic, but making sure each and every flick and swish he made was perfect. It was during this period that Joseph changed as well. He went from a relatively harmless guardian, to a task master, demanding perfection. The bubble that was his career was now inflated, and his confidence had grown to the point of arrogance. The assassination of Motumbu had launched his fame in a way that should have been impossible for the totally anonymous man. Harry knew Joseph hated the fame, but he was now respected. People began to see him as a true assassin. And that, more than anything else, made him demand nothing but perfection and beyond from his estranged apprentice.

As well as magical theory, Harry learned to take part in the hunt. The small, magical Tunisian tribe they stayed with had taken him under it's wing. The young males accepted him as an out-of-tribe brother of sorts, and even let him participate in their adolescence entry ritual at the age of 8, signifying the beginning of a time of change by letting him take part in one of the adult hunts. Though, like most young boys, he didn't manage to bring home any game, Harry had managed to impress them in his own way, using his instinctive connection to magic to guide them towards a group of game animals. Though he'd gotten a bit flustered when they hadn't immediately listened to him, he'd managed to prevent himself from throwing a fit; something he, as an outsider, had been expected to do by many. It was a sign of great respect that the few hunters who'd listened had followed his directions. It was an even greater sign of respect when they'd given him one of the skins, fashioned into a flask.

As time wore on, however, Joseph began taking more jobs. As his popularity grew larger in the underworld, there stays at each destination grew shorter. Time and time again he was called off for jobs. France, Spain, Kosovo, New Zealand, they never stayed in one place for longer than a few weeks. Joseph now owned property on every continent but Antarctica.

Harry traveled with him, jumping from place to place, either by floo or muggle transportation, though never in the same way as Joseph, and never the same method twice in a row. As Joseph gained more respect, his arrogance and pride grew. By the time he was eleven, Harry had developed a hatred of the coward he called mentor. If Joseph hadn't been his teacher, he would have found a way to leave him as soon as he could.

What angered him most wasn't the way Joseph treated him, though in no way did he enjoy the utter lack of respect he was given. No, what Harry despised was his cowardice. The man was an assassin who'd never won a fair fight in his life. He never took credit for his kills, always disappearing and leaving the country after a successful hit. He also turned down many jobs that he thought might have been too dangerous. Harry just thought he was afraid of a challenge, afraid to fail. As well, while Harry saw the necessity of anonymity in his profession, Joseph took it above and beyond to a whole different level. He had no friends, no family, no real home, and most of all no loyalties to anyone and no one loyal to him. Apart from Harry, he was completely alone.

It was for this reason that Harry had trouble acquiring a wand come his eleventh birthday. After waking up to a surprise physical attack by his 'mentor', and successfully fending him off while staying conscious (the goal of the exercise), they'd spent the rest of the day searching for a wand maker who wouldn't immediately recognize him as the boy-who-lived, or who could be trusted enough to keep it a secret. It wasn't that they'd recognize what Joseph had called his 'cursed scar'. Few knew about it. It was more that he looked a lot like the popular auror and Hogwarts Head Boy, James Potter. Joseph refused to risk having a wand maker guess who he was, or even having a European wand maker mention him to Ollivander, who would surely be able to decipher his identity.

Harry knew well what his position as boy-who-lived meant, but his disappearance from the wizarding world had caused many to doubt his very existence. It also didn't help that rumors were being spread that Voldemort had indeed survived that Halloween night, but was now in hiding for whatever reason (Harry much preferred The Quibbler's version of the story, in which Lord Voldemort abandoned his quest for domination to take up singing as a gender-confused stripper in wizarding Las-Vegas).

It was his quest for a wand that brought Harry, as well as Joseph, to Escondido Bolera, or 'Hidden Alley', the magical community located in Peru on July 31st, 1991 . As it was his first time in Peru, Harry was constantly snapping his head to an fro, soaking in the sights, sounds and Culture. Of course, as he didn't speak nor understand any Spanish, he couldn't really _understand_ any of the things he heard or the signs he read. Joseph, who'd been to Escondido Bolera before, was leading him past all of the shops and up various stair cases. Unlike Diagon Alley, Escondido Bolera wasn't linear. It was in fact a pyramid, with a total of 17 stairway-like shelves. The wand shop they were headed towards was on shelf 14.

After stopping for a few minutes to admire a particularly small Peruvian Vipertooth that had been recently captured, and was on display in what seemed to be an obscure pet shop, Harry and Joseph made their way to Castillo's Wands. It was a large shop, quite a bit larger than Gregorovitch's, the only other wand shop Harry had ever seen. When they opened the glass door, a small ringing sound pinged, which Harry assumed informed the owner of the shop someone had come in. Hundreds upon hundreds of wands lined the walls and shelves throughout the store. Few of them looked well made, and many had small knobs or other disfigurements poking out of them. It was only a few minuets of waiting before the owner of the store appeared.

The Peruvian man that appeared before them after the bell's sound had echoed around the store a bit was very plain looking. He was of average height, middle aged, and looked as though he had a bit more native blood than Spaniard in him. A man, Harry thought, that one could forget almost instantly; quite a bit like Joseph.

"¡Bienvenidos! ¿ En que manera los puedo ayudar? " The man spoke excitedly, apparently glad to be getting customers this early in summer. Harry stood back a bit, startled.

""Lo siento, no hablamos español." Joseph managed to get out whilst "Castillo" was taking a breath.

"Oh, I see. Is English alright then?" His English was good, though he had a heavy accent, Harry noted.

"Yes," said Joseph, "we're looking for a wand for him." Joseph proceeded to point at Harry.

"I should have guessed. Ok then, _mijo_," Castillo said, "which arm is your wand arm?"

"My right." said Harry. No sooner had he finished speaking that a tape measure had sprung out of the man's sleeve, and proceeded to wrap itself around his right arm in various places.

"Ah, I see, I see. Lot's of power you got there, _mijo_." He was now eyeing Harry warily. "I think I have just the wand for someone like you."

He walked off into the back of his shop, leaving Joseph and Harry alone.

"I knew this was a bad idea! He's already suspicious. We could leave before he contacts someone." Joseph was speaking quickly, Harry could easily see the man was afraid. It was pathetic.

"We're not leaving until I get a wand. I've been waiting for almost 5 years to start practicing real magic, I'm not waiting any longer." Joseph glowered at him.

"Very well. But know we're only staying because my floo detector hasn't gone off yet!" Harry rolled his eyes at Joseph's attempt to save face. As if he ever had it to begin with.

Castillo returned from the back of his shop, carrying four rectangular boxes. "Try these three first," he said, motioning towards the three cased in cardboard.

After a few minutes of testing, it became plain to see that the three wands weren't even a decent match. The first had immediately shot out of his hand and impaled itself into the wall in front of them, nearly missing Castillo's ear. The second had simply shattered as he waved it (they still had to pay for it, of course). The third had had perhaps the most interesting effect. When he waved it, it let out a horrifying shrieking noise that had Castillo screaming at him, telling him to stop waving the 'maldita vara' or 'damn stick'.

Castillo sighed as he moved on to the fourth box, which unlike the others, was actually made of wood.

"I was afraid of this. You have too much magic for my, er, more _generic_ wands. This is probably the only one in my store that could handle you. It was made by my great, great grandfather. The core is the heartstring of a particularly nasty male Peruvian Vipertooth that my great, great grandfather killed himself. It's made of aged Olive Wood, and a good specimen of it at that. Quite supple, good for powerful magic, terrible for delicate work. Probably the highest quality wand in my store, my father said it could even rival a wand sold by Mr. Ollivander himself!" Mr. Castillo handed the wand to him.

Harry raised an eyebrow. Ollivander's was probably the most well known wand maker in the world, his wands were greatly sought after, especially since he refused to sell them in bulk, or to anyone that didn't plan on going to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He took the wand from Mr. Castillo. As he did so, he felt himself connect to the magical matrix around him.

"Well, go on, wave it _mijo_. See how it feels. It having not blown up yet is a good sign, if you didn't know that." Harry did so. It gave off what Harry could only be described as a pleasant, high-pitched rumble. It felt warm in his hands, and he felt himself connecting to the magical matrix that surrounded him. It wasn't perfect; he felt a bit blocked off, like the wand wasn't quite agreeing with his will, but it was certainly a good feeling to finally be connected to magic.

"Not the best fit, but the best I'm going to get for now," he said "how much?"

"Considering that it's my best wand, the quality of the aged Olive Wood, and the sentimental value -" Mr. Castillo was cut off by Joseph's magical flare. Having been pushed out of the picture for awhile, Harry guessed he wanted to re-establish his authority.

"We don't have time for this, Spaniard. Give us a price so we can be on our way!" Harry could literally feel the magic pouring off of him as heat, it was definitely getting the right effect, as the wand maker looked very scared.

"Forty galleons." he managed to stutter out.

"I'll give you twenty." Joseph proceeded to slam a bag of twenty galleons on the table, grab Harry's arm, and pull him out of the store. Harry was a bit annoyed at the show, but was to glad about getting his first wand to really care much.

"It's about time you learn to help me with my work." Joseph said as he lead Harry back down the massive pyramid that was Escondido Bolera. "We'll start _real_ magical training tomorrow, no more children's play." Joseph spoke with a deeper, darker tone than he usually did, which only succeeded in having Harry silently laugh at his attempt to scare him. Later, Harry would be a bit resigned to admit that a little fear might have helped him in the coming years. Though he was coward, Joseph was a powerful wizard, and a clever one. Fear might have softened the blow to his pride when he discovered his own inadequacies.


	3. The Building Blocks of Progress

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I own anything in relation to Harry Potter except my plot, and my OC's.

* * *

_"I don't know how much longer I can keep this up, Albus. It is only a matter of time before I'm found out. What then?"_

_"You must continue, the fate of the world depends on it."_

_"I must save a world I can not live freely in?"_

_"If not for the world, old friend, than for me."_

_"I don't see how I owe you anything. You should be paying me some sort of tithe! The things I do for the stability of the Universe..."_

_"...You may be correct. Though I have always had my reasons, I suppose I've brought more harm upon you than you me. But as long as he still poses a threat to this world, I must be endlessly vigilant. And that, my oldest friend, requires your help. His return could occur any day..."_

_"Any day! How could you have let this come so far! You must delay his return. Inevitable as it is, at least give me time to prepare myself. I've nary been able to establish myself here, let alone been able to truly build a proper network. I am totally unprepared for his return! Stop calling me your friend, Albus!"_

_"...I will do what I can. The hands of my watch are turning faster now than ever before."_

The wind whipped, ripping the smallest of hairs he had only recent gained clear off of his uncovered wrists. Harry Potter was falling. His eyes brimmed with burning tears as he tried in vain to open them. He thrashed about on instinct. His legs flailed in the air, his jacket, well-worn and far from being salvageable by non-magical means, flapped loudly in the wind. His normally black hair was caked with dark blood and wet clay. The mountain side flew by as he approached the terminal velocity of a fourteen year old British male.

As he fell, he screamed inwardly. He couldn't physically scream of course; but mentally screaming was just as satisfying at this point.

'_Accio wand.' _Nothing happened. Cursing his previous moment of bad grip, he continued to _try_ to wordlessly summon his wand. '_Accio wand! GET OVER HERE YOU DAMNED TWIG!_"

Suddenly, his foot came into contact with something. His obvious lack of any kind of footwear, something he was all too aware of in the freezing temperature of the Appalachian peaks, had suddenly become a boon, for had he been shoe'd, he may never have felt the sensation of grainy wood rubbing against numb flesh. Acting on instinct, he reached out and grabbed the object between his toes. The back of his mind prayed it was his wand, and not an actual twig (he might have died from irony), but his conscious had bigger things to worry about, like the rapidly approaching ground.

He threw himself forward, a tough thing to do considering the winds battering every inch of his person. Grabbing his wand from his toes, he proceeded to relax back into his instincts. There was no time for calculations; no time to set up the perfect matrix and appreciate it's complexity. No, there wasn't even time to estimate just how far the ground was. He was probably going to splinch himself, but at this point, that'd be fine. Nothing but the quick wrist flick and a great will to not be where he currently was was on Harry Potter's mind.

The air around him rushing to take his place let off a resounding crack, which would have alerted any living thing around for miles had there been any to hear it. Harry Potter disappeared. All that remained was a tiny, bluish-pink blob that fell out of th sky, disappearing into the heavy snow.

With another crack, this one even louder, Harry Potter appeared on the forest floor. He fell to his knees almost immediately, quickly checking himself over for splinched body parts. After a full once over, he smiled. He'd only lost a pinkie toe, and a frost-bitten one at that. Only a week ago he never could have managed an apparation from free fall without splinching himself in half. He'd made progress. Wordlessly, he conjured some heavy bandages and began to wrap his feet up. Vanishing his boots had been a cruel thing to do, he found comfort, however, in the fact that Joseph's attempt to torture him had saved his life.

He stared up at the mountain peak, barely visible in the snowy haze, cursing his lack of subtlety. His loud apparation technique had given him away on his last attempt, and he once again cursed his inability to speak. Wordless spells were often more complex and much less powerful than loud ones. Without an incantation a wizard had to direct the magic all on there own, without the help of of a secondary matrix support provided by a word or two of will. It was of course, easier than preforming a spell without a matrix support entirely via wandless casting; wandless casting was still far out of Harry's reach.

Harry returned to staring at the mountain peak. If subtlety wasn't going to work, the only thing that would was overwhelming force. Harry smiled; he _liked_ overwhelming force. With a flick of his wrist he disappeared again, this time with a reverberation of power that blew the branches of the surrounding trees straight off, and sent the few remaining animals scrambling away from their shelters.

He reappeared at the summit, perfectly, or so he hoped, intact. He wasted no time in checking his surroundings, however, and immediately began firing of spells.

'_Herrywedla! __Dawedog Bell Bwra_' The hunting hex, followed by the sniping hex flew off the tip of his wand, flying straight before sharply turning towards some shrubbery, the hunting hex leading the deadly sniping blast towards the nearest magical signature. Normally the signature tracker, also knowns as the hunting hex, was useless. It followed the shortest path to the nearest magical signature that wasn't it's caster, making it rather wasteful in battle. You were just as likely to hit a random magical object, a magically infused piece of land, or even worse, a comrade as you were to hit your opponent. However, here, isolated on a barren mountain side, the tracking hex was a irreplaceable tool. The only other magical object in the forest, and the only place the grid lines would lead, was his yellow-bellied mentor.

Harry Potter had grown up in too many places to ever have a true grasp of pop culture, so he had never heard the common expression about what assumptions do to people. However, had he known it, he would have agreed entirely.

Harry had, of course, followed up his sniping hex with a few other simple curses. A single '_stupefy' _had revealed, by the lack of body falling out of the bush, that the bush was, in fact, magical. After further inspection, Harry realized he was examining a Holly bush. Holly was ever so slightly magical, never enough to set off a normal tracking ward, but apparently enough to trip the hunting hex. And while Harry was not vocal about it, his flushed face indicated a great amount of anger at that particular fun fact.

_'Shitshitshitshitshit,'_Harry frantically searched the area. It was guaranteed that Joseph had chosen this area particularly to trap Harry, but, as Harry had just discovered, assuming that was probably a very bad idea.

A purple ball of light rushed past his nose as he flattened himself to the ground. He scrambled towards the Holly bush for cover. A second purple flash smashed into his side.

Harry screamed his throat hoarse. He realized later that this must have looked very creepy, with the lack of real noise and all. Three of his ribs had been shattered. Lying just barely awake and in a cacophony of intense pain, Harry watched through blurry eyes as Joseph stepped out from what appeared to be a mountain of dirt. Inwardly, Harry cursed his own lack of perception. Joseph always preferred to rely on his own-made cover then that of the natural forest.

Joseph walked towards him, leisurely swaggering back forth, taunting Harry with his victory. He bent down, putting himself at eye level with Harry.

"For someone whose been silenced, you made a shit-load of noise," he said, smiling cruelly. "You might have actually escaped if you'd ran after shooting the bush. Staying in the area was foolish. Of course, I shouldn't have expected anything better from you, _apprentice._"

With that, Harry did his best to turn his pain mired face into a mimicry of Josephs sneer.

_'Hypa!'_

The silent pushing charm shot out of Harry's wand, and was sent directly into the ground in front of his face. The loose dist sprayed upwards, straight into Joseph's unprotected eyes.

"-argh!" Joseph faltered back, wiping his eyes as best he could. "You brat!" Leaning back, Joseph charged forward, slamming his leather boot into Harry's injured side.

If Harry had screamed silently before, this was more of a unheard wail.

"Let's go, you ungrateful wretch," Joseph paused, "you've already _failed_ this exercise."

SCENE BREAK

Cassius Valmont had known that the day ahead would be a terrible trial when in the morning, for the first time in his life since his fathers death, he slept through his alarm. The tiny bells whose chime had brought him out of sleep for the past ten years had failed to sound. Cassius Valmont considered himself a master of his own time, and because he could not control what he dreamed of, he settled for falling asleep at precisely the same time every night in precisely the same position, on his back with his arms at his sides, palms up. To lose time in his day could only mean disaster, he knew.

Valmont's suspicions came to fruition much earlier than he had thought. He wished he had noticed that all of his servants had failed to come into his room, at 5:15, to dress him. He wished even more that he had recognized the significance of silence that permeated his villa. If he had, he might have simply decided to _skip_ the day. It would not have been simple, but he was so sure he could have made it to the shed disguising his most secure vault. He was even more sure that his time-turner, carefully constructed out of an ancient grandfather clock, would not have exploded, and nor would it have imploded had he gone today. Unfortunately, it was not to be. He walked with renewed purpose, shoulders back, resigned, and entered his own ante-chamber.

Now, Cassius stood in front of twelve men dressed in black hoods, with pearl white masks covering their faces. Each mask depicted a face contorted in hatred, fitting, considering the faces they concealed. He glanced slowly, taking care to use only his eyes to roam over them. They varied in heights, and weights, but eleven of them carried the air of a coward. They leaned back, and their hands hovered over their wands, shaking ever so slightly. Had it not been for the twelfth figure, Valmont might have taken amusement in their fear.

The twelfth figure was the shortest of them, though he stood at the center. He slouched, and appeared almost bored in manner. That alone, however, would not have been cause for Valmont's concern. No, it was the way the other eleven crowded around him, how they all had there masks, intentionally or not, turned towards him, that inspired caution in the self-styled Roman wizard. Valmont's observations turned out to be quite correct, on a scale far larger than he had hoped.

The short, slouching man, for he was most obviously male, stepped forward. He leaned a bit, leering. And then, he _hissed._

_"It has been a long time since we last spoke, Cassius."_

Valmont noted with only the slightest bit of horror that the voice had most obviously _not _originated from behind the man's mask, but from behind his very head.

"Long enough, it seems," Valmont spoke as he walked forward. He held himself with all of his inherited authority and every last shred of his pride.

The figure leers became even more pronounced as he continued to speak in a forced whisper, "_It is complete then?"_

"It is." There was a short lull in the conversation, and the silence that had before stood as an unseen warning was suddenly broken by the cackle and pop of magical build up. Valmont shielded his eyes only slightly, soaking in the pure magic being sent through the air in waves, carefully memorizing each bend and curve of the magical matrix. Failing to notice even the slightest deviation from the grids normally rigid form could be disastrous.

"Then let us begin," the figure said. The voice's change was pronounced and obvious. It was no longer the voice of a half dead man that echoed throughout the small ante-chamber of Valmont's villa.

Valmont led the group into the vast dome that comprised his "presentation room." Normally used to show off alchemical processes for rich investors, the room had seen very little use lately. Valmont was quite prepared to retire from both the world of business and that of alchemy.

Valmont crossed to the center of the room, flicking his wand casually towards a cabinet positioned high of the ground. The cabinet sprung open, and twelve identically sized pieces of white chalk floated towards the center of the room. They arranged themselves in a circle, and with little warning snapped into action. With the conductor-like grandiose movements of Lord Valmont's wand guiding them, the pieces of chalk flew across the chambers smooth stone floor. They curved and crossed, forming hundreds upon hundreds of symbols and glyphs, all contained within a single, larger circle.

When it was finally finished, Valmont took a step back, and gestured towards it's center. Sweat fell from his brow onto his traditional red robe. Not even the most observant interrogation auror in Europe could have guessed that Cassius Valmont was nervous.

The short figure glided forward. Valmont could only call it gliding, as it appeared his feet were not touching the ground. Three of the eleven others, the largest, carried barrels towards the center of the circle, following their master, but keeping their distance at the same time. When they reached the center of the magnificent design, the short one turned, and nodded in recognition of the other three. They nodded back, though nervously, and proceeded to dump the contents of the barrels onto the floor surrounding the slouching figure.

"Water, wood, and various stones. I have brought all you have asked for _alchemist,_" the short man spat the last word like spoiled wine. He gestured again to the piles of material and various rocks around him, "Is this enough?" he questioned.

"Yes," Lord Valmont chose his words carefully, "it is enough." The shorter figure proceed to dismiss the three others. He floated there, hovering inches above the direct center of the circle. Valmont raised his wand slowly, gathering magical energies as he brought it to a zenith above his head. The lines being bent around the wand were now so far out of place, that they began to distort reality itself. An outside observer would have seen a twisted and misshapen space where the wand should have been. Slowly, Valmont brought the wand down towards the very edge of the circle. All of the other clocked figures had long since fled from the room, knowing they were unneeded for this particular procedure. No words were spoke, for no incantation could possibly bring this experiment control.

In the moments before Valmont's wand made contact with the edge of the chalk, two inexplicable things occurred. The man floating in the middle jerked suddenly, and his head spun in a way it was never meant to. The blood leaking out of his ear marked him as quite past dead. As well, the moment _that _occurred, a blue glow appeared around the body, as it fell onto the cold stone beneath. The second occurrence had almost escaped Valmont's notice. However, it is hard to escape the notice of memory. A brown owl flew quietly out of the third window to the left of the window three floors above the grand entrance to the presentation room, the only window left open in the entire villa.

After noting the owls flight, Valmont slammed his wand violently into the chalk, and pushed.

The result was nothing short of spectacular.

Magical power exploded in a boom of sonic energy multiple times, rendering the leading alchemist of his age near deaf. The blinding colors exploded out of the center as wave after wave of power and foul smelling smoke poured covered the room. The chalk itself glowed with ethereal energy, spinning the air above it into a miniature gale.

When the winds died down, and stench of rotting flesh began to clear from the room, Lord Valmont, a man who had once dreamed of empire, stood at the edge of his own alchemic circle, cursing his own life. He glanced upwards only when laughter erupted.

Valmont could just barely restrain his gasp as the newly created golem, _his _newly created golem, became visible. It was tall, exactly two meters in height. It's overall demeanor was slim, almost sickly. However, underneath the pristine whiteness of its unblemished skin, muscles and sinew rippled horrifically. And its face, Valmont could not bring himself to lift his gaze to its eyes. He knew what lay there. A perfect face. A face unmarred by scarring and untouched by the rays of the sun. Totally white, a perfect jawline, a handsome jaw. Two deep set, and sickeningly charming green eyes that glowed with life, and power. He had even given it hair. Long, shining black hair, that splayed across its back. He almost retched.

The creature, or creation, was leaning its head back. The sound that it emitted was similar to laughter. But it was dulled, scratchy, as if it hadn't been used in ages. The sound held none of the _human_ quality of laughter. It was cold, devoid of human characteristics. As its laughter calmed down, Valmont could hear it breathing in short gasps. It was growing accustomed to its new lungs, he knew. It was all he could do to discipline his face as his hideous and most vile creation cocked its head towards him. Despite having skin made from stone, he was the palest of tones. In fact, if not for the detestable aura of lifelessness that surrounded it, Cassius himself might have thought him human. Green eyes gazed into his own. It smiled. Before it could speak to him, though, a loud crash followed by a quick shuffle echoed throughout the domed chamber.

The creatures head snapped towards the sound, and its muscles tensed, ready to pounce on the intruder. Valmont, thinking quickly, or perhaps not at all, took the action he knew he would take. He stepped forward with his wand, pointing it at the indescribable horror of a being before him. But he did not speak an incantation. It did not matter, for he knew quite clearly that he would not have time for a spell. When he had first motioned with his wand, the golem had already sprung into action, flying across the floor and making use of its inhuman speed and strength. No, he spoke the only words that came to mind, and continued them, even as his heart was ripped violently from his chest by the creatures claw like hands.

"Forgive me, Minerva." And with those words, Lord Cassius Valmont fell. He was, in death, as heartless as the creature he had created.

The golem turned slowly, breathing deeply, savoring the taste of life. He held his arms out as the previously hidden acolytes stepped forward, bearing a back cloak of silk. As two of the hooded figures clothed him, the other nine bowed deeply on their knees.

One acolyte removed his hood, revealing a pale face and a head of long, platinum blond hair. He looked up with the utmost reverence, displaying his heritage of pride and ceremony as well as only a Malfoy could. And with the words, "Welcome back, my Lord Voldemort," Lucius Malfoy welcomed the newly reborn Dark Lord to the world.

SCENE BREAK

Many would say that the Department of Mysteries is filled with mysterious things. Those people would probably follow that statement with a light chuckle, and would also probably only discuss that particular department around the water cooler of some other department, and even then only in jest. They were the majority of the Ministry of Magic's employment. Drones and political dregs who would never question, nor ever receive answers about all that is magic. Of course, there were also those who _do _indulge in the great depths of the DoM. They were the few, the always heard of but almost never seen, unspeakables. Those men were almost always alone. They had no family, and very few friends. They devoted their lives to the study of magic, and all that that pertained, walking as close to the edge as there sanity would allow before taking a flying leap over the side. Alexandr Petranova was such a man.

A Russian immigrant who had arrived in magical Britain when he was only three years old, Alexandr had no family to speak of. His parents had died of disease, and he had no siblings. Most who knew him said he had no friends but the ones he created. For Alexandr was a creator. He headed a very particular division of the DoM, called The Creators. The Creators did exactly what their name suggests, just like every other ministry job. They created spells, procedures, artifacts, inventions, news, and devices of all sorts. Established by the enigmatic Caractacus Burke in the early 1900's, The Creators division of the DoM was responsible for a lot of the strange goings ons in the Department. The various rooms of the DoM contained many failed experiments of The Creators, who were far to busy to see about disposing of them. Of course, it was none of those rooms that currently concerned Alexandr Petranova as he walked steadily through the corridors of the DoM.

Passing by several other unspeakables on the way, Alexandr, who nearly hobbled in his old age, made no attempts at conversation. Unspeakables rarely did, but most would at least acknowledge others. Alexandr was not most. He stopped his ambling at a seemingly normal door. It was like any of the other hundreds of doors that filled the Department. In fact, the doors were all so identical that if one doesn't already have a good idea which door is the door they have been assigned, one could get lost very, very easily.

Alexandr proceeded to open the door in front of him. Unlike the other unspeakables, he exhibited no caution. In his old age, death by creation seemed like a fittingly ironic end.

He smiled slightly when he walked through the doorway totally unscathed. He cursed his luck in jest, and continued onwards into the dark room. It was long before he met another unspeakable who was currently observing multiple subjects.

"Progress?" Alexandr's voice cracked with disuse, and he neglected to so much as turn his head towards the other unspeakable. The other unspeakable unrolled a short piece of parchment, and began listing off his current results.

"The following are the results of experiment 10777, code name 'Project Our Rock': Subject 009847, dead by natural causes. Subject 009848, dead by magical overload to the brain. Subject 009849, terminated by Unspeakable Andrews. Subject 009850, terminated by Unspeakable Fjiord. Subject 009851..." The Unspeakable paused, turning himself fully towards Alexandr.

He continued, "Subject 009851, successful integration of human characteristics." Alexandr continued to stare up at the subject before him. The boy lay preserved in a tube of Streeler jelly, the only subject of just under 100 left alive after ten years of study. The number 009851 was printed just under the preserving chamber. Alexandr smiled, though only slightly. Turning on his heel, he began to again hobble out of the dark room.

"Wake him up, and send him out," he ordered. He did not need to look back, just as the other unspeakable knew there was no reason to nod.

Unspeakable Andrews, now quite nervous after enduring a visit from his highest ranking supervisor, stared up at his remaining subject. He had been working with him for the past three years, ever since the boys connection to the lines had become stable. He had been nearly a squib when he was inducted into the program. Subject 009851 was the first perfectly integrated human/golem hybrid. He would do great things for the Ministry.

As he turned to leave the room to that he could relay the order to awaken the subject to his handler, Unspeakable Andrews turned one last time, to look upon the boy that he so strongly believed to be the savior of modern magical Britannia.

"Yes, Mr. Longbottom, you will do great things."

Scene Break

Harry knew exactly what his job was. When he had started to accompany Joseph on his 'missions' (Harry refused to call them something so juvenile, and only called them such using obvious verbal quotation marks to annoy his mentor) he had only been an observer. He might have continued to stand watch quietly if Joseph hadn't discovered that two wizards were infinitely harder to capture than one. While Joseph could not be in two places at once, with Harry's help, he could appear to be. As well, the addition of a second wizard on his 'missions' threw off the scarce few detectives who had even the slimmest chance of tracking him. Harry didn't mind of course.

Killing people was interesting. Or, at least, that was the way Harry had looked at it in the beginning. Joseph had been forced to teach him at least a dozen new spells before he could be useful on a job, and while Harry had never actually assassinated anybody, by his fourteenth birthday he'd been an accomplice in the murders of twelve different dignitaries from various nations. His role varied, depending on the situation. In the beginning, he played the look-out, wielding tripping jinxes and sloth spells to slow down any pursuers. As time went on, Harry began to play a larger part, taking on the job of a scout. By sending Harry, Joseph could scope an area and its warding without ever having to be on site. It wasn't until he had discovered Harry's ability to interact with wards that he began involving Harry directly. While his magical sight was pathetic, his ability to sense and understand how spells and wards interacted with the magical matrix was uncanny, especially considering that the two skills almost always went hand in hand.

It was that particular skill that Harry would be using today. Currently, he was lying near flat against the packed dirt of an Albanian hiking trail. The hike itself had been rather tedious; his skills at silent apparation were still lacking. As in he didn't have any.

He had already set up a camouflaged hollow out of surrounding brush. Unfortunately, a bush tall enough to hold a human standing or sitting comfortably would have been suspiciously out of place, so he'd been forced to lie low. He felt a small itch on the back of one of his legs.

"Fucking spiders," he said. Or at least, he would have if he hadn't been previously silenced. As much as he despised Joseph training sessions, they had the benefit of forcing himself to cast silently. He could cast all but his most difficult spells, which consisted of three warding spells and a particularly nasty curse-counter, without an incantation. Of course, he had a tendency to over-do the wand movement as a result, but he'd always felt more comfortable using movements and actions than words. He was the opposite of Joesph, who greatly preferred minimized wand movements and powerful words. He supposed it had to do with how they approached interacting with the matrix. Incantations were like asking magic to do what you wanted nicely, sometimes ordering it. Movements were more like grabbing it yourself and bending it to your will. Harry supposed he would rather bend than speak.

"Welcome, one and all, to the first meeting of..." Harry's eyes snapped open when he realized the small gathering in the clearing below had begun there meeting. Harry had no need to move yet, his arm was already in position.

The small circle of stones that encased the Soviet Resource Protection Society instilled a great sense of security in its members. Harry almost snorted at how unready they seemed. He would have mocked the incompetence of the KGB's wizardry division, if he had not already seen at least four agents in the surrounding area. He bristled, escape would not be as easy as it normally was.

They, they being Joseph, had been contracted to take out one of the last remaining magical leaders of the Soviet Union. While the muggle socialist governing body had fallen apart a few years before, the muggle-born communists that ran it's wizarding side still clinged to power. Most had been ousted from office, and it was only a matter of time before an uprising occurred, probably from the slighted pure-blooded upper class. Of course, they were a bit impatient, hence their choice to hire an assassin to speed things up a tad. Killing a high ranking member of the remaining government, especially in such a public way, would be highly demoralizing to those who opposed revolution.

Fyodor Marmelodov was one of the final department heads left in the Soviet governments hidden wizarding branch. He was a portly man, and his ruddy skin appeared to be constantly flustered. A muggle-born wizard, he was of mediocre power. His networking abilities were considered sub-par, as he had the tendency to alienate those around his with his radical view points. No, it was because of his passion and his ability to bring passion to others that he found himself in one of the most cushy jobs in Eastern Europe. As the Head of the Department for the Preservation of Soviet Resources, an arbitrary title, Marmelodov made his living speaking. He spoke out against the "crimes" of pure-blooded aristocrats, and inspired the masses of poor wizards and witches with promises of "resources", welfare and help. He told them, with tears in his eyes, of the horrible greed of the aristocrats. He screamed at them, with words of unearthly passion, that they must take arms against that most detestable foe. He was here today to give a powerful propaganda speech about the importance of handing over once resources to the government to manage.

However, he was not a politician of words and no heart; Fyodor Mermelodov believed every last bit of his hot air. A radical in every sense of the word, it had been decided almost unanimously that his death was the most appropriate to send a message to the remaining government officials.

Harry continued to eye the large, pale ward stone surrounding the proceedings. He could just barely see the shimmer of ward lines snap into place when he squinted. His role would be simple, weaken the wards enough so that they did not hinder Josephs sniping hex.

He concentrated hard on the shimmering purple of the second level 'variety shield' that blanketed the both the crowd and the platform. It was weak, slapped together at the last second using expensive looking ward stones to show the governments great care in protecting its citizens. It would shatter at the first signs of magical pressure. It was the second ward array that worried Harry. Had they been allowed to kill him anywhere it would not have bee a problem. However, they had been contracted to kill him mid-speech, the best way to send a message. Unfortunately, the powerful ward array surrounding the podium made that much more difficult.

Harry did his best to study the array, but it was marred in shadow. He swore, realizing it was covered in a 'fog of war' ward, a complicated ward that was based on a simple concept. The 'fog of war' ward obscured a curse breakers vision of the wards in play in an array; what a curse breaker cannot see, he cannot break.

The only way anyone would be able to break such an array was by lifting the fog. Which would have been simple, if he had a few minutes to do so. If he didn't break them all at once, however, he'd be easily found and killed before he could even attempt to view the wards behind the fog.

Harry smiled. It was time for some creative spell work. He sifted through each spell he was learned, reviewing there purposes and more importantly, there effects. Within a few minutes, he'd worked out a plan.

He slowly maneuvered his arm into the hollow part of the bush. First he would 'light up' the wards with a particularly loud spell. The whistling hex was one of his favorite spells, after all. Created by Wolfgang van Houtwen out of jealously of one of his peers musical talent, the whistling hex was used to damage the hearing of one Ludwig van Beethoven. When he'd originally been taught the spell, which seemed to be nothing more than a screaming (literally) flash of light, it had been for use as a distraction. Harry discovered, however, that the hex was loud magically as well as physically. It caused an amazing disturbance in the magical matrix.

Pulling his arm back, he slashed it horizontally in a wide arc, screaming the incantation in his head.

'_Dolarba!' _The shimmering, pale hex flew at great speed across the forest, shattering the first shield like glass, and continuing to smash into the ward array surrounding Marmelodov. The loud screeching noise of the hex had left Marmelodov speechless, if only for a split second.

Harry almost turned away as the whistling hex made the wards scream. He could feel the reverberations of every ward and every ley line pulled out of place. Making a split second decision, Harry chose the spell he thought would best destroy the wards in place. Normally he would have studied the array for at least a few seconds before even consulting his list, but in this particular case, time was to valuable to waste. If he guessed wrong, it meant less money. If he didn't guess quickly, it meant less time to live.

"Lubrivacuusio!" he screamed,the silencer having worn out minutes ago. After making a largely exaggerated arc and slash movement with his wand, a line-like blur flew at high speeds towards the baffled Marmelodov. He had no reason to worry about stealth any longer, the whistling hex had ensured that.

The tightly bound slicing hex slammed into the wards, tearing through the loose matrix with the satisfying feeling of making a fresh cut into a page of construction paper. Harry looked on proudly, taking what moments he could to find satisfaction in a job well done.

He continued to look on, now not in pride but in horror, at the fat, Russian dignitary at the podium. Marmelodov had been effected by the slicing hex meant only for the wards. In fact, one could say the Russian's entire neck had been effected. The decapitated body slowly fell to its knees, and Harry watch in morbid fascination as his head slowly rolled towards the edge of the stage, before falling off with a sickening splat.

Paralyzed in shock, Harry continued to stare. "No," he whispered, "I didn't, I couldn't have," but he had. Harry knew he had. No sniping hex had killed Fyodor Marmelodov. It had been unneeded. Unfortunately, Harry rarely had the time to stand and contemplate his actions. After catching the white armband of a KGB wizard in the corner of his eye, he sprang into action. Quickly shouting off a shield spell, Harry would have been killed, or at the least captured if not for a blinding light that exploded onto the scene.

"What the fuck are you doing, brat?" For the first time in his life, Harry was relieved, not annoyed in the least, to hear his masters voice and experience the results of his paranoia.


End file.
